


Battle Ready

by Herbrarian



Series: New Orders [14]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Chant of Light, Crisis of Faith, Ensemble Cast, Ferelden Whiskey, Gen, Herald's Rest, Knight-Enchanter, Loss, Lyrium Addiction, Reading Thoughts, Skyhold, Sparring, Tavern, The Chantry, Training, john donne
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-29 14:08:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6379204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Herbrarian/pseuds/Herbrarian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Previously: The Inquisition continues to seek out the Grey Wardens. The Inquisitor focuses on mastering a new fighting style as her company of companions evolves. Each strategic mission brings the Inquisition closer to Corypheus and more people flock to Skyhold every day to seek the influence of this new found power.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The garden is near empty. Afternoon prayers began in the Chapel after lunch, and the herbalists are off attending to chores elsewhere in order not to disturb the faithful. Cassandra walks to the low wall separating the porch that lines the courtyard from the gardens. She leans on it, her hands and arms propping up her weight. She scowls into the sunlight. Now that she is here, she isn’t sure she wants to go into the chapel. She wonders if she should be seeking out the Revered Mother; she moves to sit down before she makes the decision to do so.

Absently, she slides a slim book wrapped in cloth out from behind her breastplate. She unwinds the silk bands wrapping it, drapes them over her thigh, and opens the leather-bound volume. The pages rest open to a poem she frequents of late:

     Sweetest love, I do not go,  
                For weariness of thee,  
     Nor in hope the world can show  
                A fitter love for me.  
                                But since that I  
     Must die at last, ‘tis best,  
     To use myself in jest  
                Thus by feigned deaths to die.

 Cassandra sits with the book open in her hands, but her gaze moves dully and shifts away from the words. She looks out to the courtyard. The garden is blissfully empty of nobles. Skyhold is beginning to look more and more like a seat of power with all of the nobility about currying favor, albeit a minor seat of power given the exiled nature of some of the nobles.

The Orlesian delegation that arrived while the Inquisitor was on the Storm Coast is a hopeful sign. Cullen briefed Cassandra upon her early return that Gaspard sent the delegation to entreat with the Inquisition’s influence. For years Justinia skirted the issue of the Orlesian throne—no small task given their location in Val Royeaux—and it seems unlikely the Inquisition can afford the same impartiality. Andraste bless Josephine with better luck in handling it all.

Resting her head back against the stones of the keep behind her, Cassandra lets her eyelids drift close. Dimly, the hum of the Chant reaches her ears. Revered Mother Giselle is leading the service for the afternoon. The sound of the Chant washes over Cassandra; it is Andraste’s sermon at Valarian and it calls to her mind unbidden images of the Temple.

_Stumbling over rumble, tripping, sliding on the rocks, the ceiling unnervingly open to the green, twisted sky above me; I pick up myself and my sword. I do not know where I have left my shield, lost somewhere in the chaos. At every body I see I turn it over. None of them are Regalyan, but I keep turning the bodies over, knowing that one of them must be him._

The Revered Mother’s voice rises in the quiet in the litany of the Chant:

“But the one who repents, who has faith / Unshaken by the darkness of the world / And boasts not, nor gloats / Over the misfortunes of the weak / but takes delight…”

Cassandra blocks out her memories, blocks out the Chant, struggles to only see what is before her, all the while knowing that there is only darkness in the world and that she swirls in the vortex of that darkness. She focuses her vision on the garden.

The long, warm days of summer are coming to Skyhold and the sheltered courtyard feature an early flush of green. The Inquisitor’s interest in alchemical potions encouraged the college of herbalists to propose a specimen garden. The courtyard is filled with the delights of Dorothea’s travels, clippings and seedlings ranging wide from across Ferelden and Orlais. In the distance Cassandra sees Herbalist Elan approach a more recent acquisition that came back from the Storm Coast along with the Chargers.

Cassandra made no secret when they met The Iron Bull that she was uneasy around the large _Ben-Hassrath_ who led the mercenary company. The Inquisitor’s rather practical stance that it was better to keep the Qunari close and not to become enmeshed in old grudges caused Cassandra to self-censor her doubts.

Ultimately it did not matter if the large Qunari warrior was a spy or a simple merc, there was no denying he was a terror on the battlefield. He charged fearlessly in the face of Venatori or demon alike. Cassandra left the Coast behind, returning to Skyhold ahead of the party, charging Blackwall and Solas to keep an eye on the Inquisitor with her new companion.

Absently Cassandra rubs her thumb over the leather cover of the book in her lap. The binding is still relatively fresh, the leather supple and bright with pigment rich from dye. She has been very careful with the slender volume, a gift from Regalyan when she left for Kirkwall to hunt the Champion.

She struggles now to recall the shape of the bridge of his nose. The only keepsake left to her of him is this slender volume. The smell of its parchment and leather interlaces in her mind with the feel of his cheeks under her fingertips. Her eyes begin to prickle and she is dimly aware of the singing from the chapel. She opens the slim volume again:

          But think that we  
     Are but turned aside to sleep;  
     They who one another keep  
          Alive, ne’er parted be.

Cassandra sighs and drops her chin to her chest, closing her eyes. She has tried so often to block this pain, to wall herself off from it, to focus on the things in front of her. Anthony, the Temple, the Seekers, Justinia, Regalyan; she can’t think, can’t bear it. She is coming undone with this feeling of hopelessness and loss; every purpose she ever had is gone.

“Cassandra?”

She jerks, her head shooting up at the Revered Mother’s presence. Mother Giselle sits down, the soft musk of incense clinging to her robes and tickling Cassandra’s nose. It is the smell of old comforts that now only bring a chasm of loss to Cassandra’s heart.

She struggles to master herself, manages to huskily respond, “Revered Mother. How are you?”

Mother Giselle smiles at Cassandra, the older woman’s hands clasped in her lap, “I am well, Cassandra. How have you been keeping since Haven?”

“I am sorry I have not been, have not had the time to—”

Mother Giselle hushes her with a gentle hand on her arm.

“Your duties take you other places than my chapel, it is no great sin. Although, word comes to me that since the Herald became the Inquisitor you no longer sit among the advisors.” Giselle’s statement is a hinted question.

“Speculation is idle gossip, Your Reverence. It was my decision to step back.”

“Oh no, Cassandra, you misunderstand. There is no blame at the feet of our Herald. It was simply an observation brought to my attention by one who worries for you.”

“Leliana should not worry you, Your Reverence. I am fine, as she should have told you. It was just time, that is all.”

“Hmmmmm,” Giselle murmurs absently, “are you fine?” Then, as if she has said nothing, she continues on in a louder, clear voice, “It was not Leliana but another who worries for you and the burdens you take onto yourself.” Giselle sits back and looks out into the garden. Giselle lifts a hand and waves and Cassandra follows the Revered Mother’s gaze to see Varric exiting to the Great Hall.

“Hope unites us in our common purpose,” Giselle continues. “We have been given a rallying call by the Inquisition’s leaders. I see remarkably little of any of the advisors, devout though they may be, but still you call us out of our fears and our apathy to meet the darkness of the world.”

Cassandra scoffs and says heatedly, “There is no peace, Revered Mother, with all due respect. The Maker turned away from us and we are but untutored children if we dare to forget that.” Mother Giselle sits and waits for Cassandra to continue. “You spoke today on Andraste’s battle sermon, but they are the words of a woman at peace with her purpose, at union with her Maker. ‘The Veil holds no uncertainty’; that is no one around us, Mother. Justinia should not be gone, Regalyan should not be gone. I should not have to stand alone,” Cassandra blurts out before she can stop herself. She stills, her hands gripping the cover of the slender book. Her knuckles whiten with the tension, seeking to make it into a lifeline to find her peace, her purpose, her sundered heart.

Mother Giselle sits and studies Cassandra in silence. She breathes slowly, and then turns her face away to the garden. Cassandra does not expect an answer to her despair. She anticipates the Revered Mother to make her apologies, take her leave, rise, and quit this conversation.

It is a surprise, then, when the older woman begins to speak. “Transfigurations 10 can be a complex text, and hard to accept when one’s self is in conflict. Andraste was a warrior, a shield-maiden as you know. Many are inclined to read Transfigurations 10 as a trope, simply a battle sermon that the Chantry uses as an example and creates from it the Exalted Marches.

“But I believe that if they are indeed the prophet’s words that she struggled to feel them. She speaks to her soldiers in the third person, as if the person of faith who seeks the fire is separate from the person who speaks. It creates distance between the prophet and the woman, between the divine leader and the woman. You feel the truth of that in your own life, too. Justinia felt much the same upon taking the Sunburst Throne.”

Giselle smiles again, but it is the wry grin of remembrance. Cassandra reminds herself that this woman lost more than just a leader and a colleague at the Temple; she lost a friend, too.

“No,” Giselle continues. “I believe the truer vision of Andraste lies in Transfiguration 12:

My Maker, know my heart:  
Take from me a life of sorrow.  
Lift me from a world of pain.  
Judge me worthy of your endless pride.

“That is the vision of Andraste I prefer: a sorrow-weary warrior come to the Maker seeking absolution for her despair and the solace of His peace,” she murmurs gently. Giselle pauses and silence descends around the two women.

“I have misplaced my Faith Realized, Your Reverence,” Cassandra dully speaks in a low tone.

“You flounder in your calling as a Seeker, as a shield-maiden?”

“Yes.”

“This is why you stepped out of the fore; you no longer know what lies beyond the Veil for you?”

“Yes.”

“In the midst of our sorrow it can be difficult to remember that the people we love and care for give us purpose as much as the Maker does. You, Cassandra, have lost those who defined your purpose for you. You will have to fill that again before the sense of waywardness ebbs.

“Remember that Andraste was simply a mortal woman who loved and was loved in return. The love we bear for one another should be as sacred to us as the Maker’s love for Andraste was.” Giselle gestures to the book in Cassandra’s hands. “Just as it is written in there, ‘For God’s sake hold your tongue, and let me love.’ Love should consume us as the fire does; it is what we are called to be.”

Giselle chuckles at the startled look in Cassandra’s eyes.

“I was not always a Revered Mother, Cassandra. I hope I see you again soon.” With that, Mother Giselle pats Cassandra on the hand, rises from the bench, and walks away back to the Chapel.

Cassandra is left on her own.

The afternoon presses on and the garden begins to fill again with Orlesian nobles and Antivan merchants, seeking the afternoon sun. The rest after lunch has ended. Cassandra sighs. It is time to return the sonnets to her footlocker and meet the afternoon’s work.


	2. Chapter 2

Cassandra climbs the stairs to the ramparts. Crossing to the mages’ tower, she sees the tower in the distance which Cullen claims. His golden head is bobbing down the stairs to the courtyard below. She is to meet him later to inspect the dungeons and evaluate if they should expand them or if instead rebuilding the southeastern ramparts should take precedence.

_Sweet Andraste, if it was up to me, I’d fix my own damn roof first. Fereldens._

She snorts quietly in laughter, and enters the upper levels of the armory where she lays her head. She descends the stairs to the landing which holds her belongings and opens the lock on her chest.

As she tucks away the book, carefully putting it under some clothing so it will not bump about in the chest, she hears a commotion in the courtyard outside her window. She closes her locker, crosses to the window, and looks down at the sparring ring. She watches for a while, her scowl deepening.

_Maker, that woman has no subtlety with a blade._

Looking out her window Cassandra remembers how grateful she felt when the Inquisitor decided on the Knight-Enchanter discipline for her advanced training. More and more frequently Dorothea brought only one warrior into the field with her, filling out her personal party entirely with mages. While all four of the mages among the companions are formidable foes, none of them is equipped for melee.

The barrier magic the Inquisitor excels at saves her life far too often. Another attack in her arsenal would be useful; particularly one which so many warriors have no guard against. But Cassandra is not sure how it will help precisely with such an abysmal instinct for melee. Strapping on her sword and scabbard, Cassandra descends the stairs from her loft and continues to ponder the Inquisitor’s most frequent companion choice for expeditions.

For obvious reasons, Dorothea favors Blackwall in the field, which does little to alleviate Cassandra’s concerns. Blackwall does not fight smart where the Inquisitor is concerned. Too often Cassandra has seen him bluster in, entering into overwhelming odds for one blade. Trying to keep the fight away from the Inquisitor the man had fallen more than once in the field. Cassandra knows the Inquisitor rushes to the fore to revive him, no matter what danger or demon that puts her in the path of.

Cassandra steps out into the sunshine and blinks in the bright light. She retreats to near the dungeon entrance, seeking the shelter of the shade from the hot, afternoon sun. Too late she sees Blackwall standing there. Unable to avoid the man she stands an arm’s span from him. His relaxed grin as he stands there—arms crossed and a possessively proud gleam in his eye—tells Cassandra all she needs to know about his ability to see danger for the Inquisitor.

Catching Cassandra’s prolonged glance at him Blackwall nods at her and moves a step closer.

“What do you think of our girl? Isn’t she fierce?” Blackwall asks, pride radiating from his voice.

“I would not say that,” Cassandra returns and watches the mage fail yet again to connect her thrust with the blade of her opponent.

Startled by her response, Blackwall splutters, “What?”

“I believe the Lady Seeker means the Inquisitor is hardly a slip of a girl,” Cullen solidifies out of the shadows behind them. Coming up from checking on a prisoner in the hold, he moves to stand equidistant between the two other warriors. He rests with his hands clasped behind his back.

“Oh,” Blackwall blurts, “well, no,” and the older man reddens, knuckling his beard, tugging at the short hairs.

Cassandra looks from one man to the other. There is no doubt in Cassandra’s mind that Dorothea captivates the Grey Warden. There could be no doubt in anyone’s mind that chooses to visit the stables; the two of them took little care to hide their kissing. It was a wonder that Dennet hadn’t had any horses struck blind, Cassandra muses to herself.

Dismissing Blackwall from her thoughts, Cassandra asks Cullen, “Is she battle ready, Commander?” and refocuses her attention back on the sparring ring.

Cullen snorts through his nose.

“Yes, my thoughts, too,” Cassandra responds as the three continue to watch. Dorothea swings for an attack and rather embarrassingly stumbles when her opponent sensibly shifts away from her obvious lunge. She comes up and stands bent over with her hands on her knees, catching her breath in the sun.

She is oblivious to her position. The hapless soldier sparring with her does not seem to know where to look, unsure if he should take his victory and demand her yield or just pretend he needs a breather, too. His look of abject terror causes Cassandra to lower her head to her hand and sigh loudly. She cannot stand to watch this folly-filled play any longer. From the corner of her eye she can see Blackwall’s discomfited expression and the Commander’s preternatural control as he stalks forward to the ring.


	3. Chapter 3

“May I match blades against you, Lady Inquisitor?”

Cullen speaks clearly, his voice carrying across the courtyard. He knows that if he openly challenges her, her pride will not allow a refusal.

The soldier in the ring looks at his Commander as if Andraste herself sent him and unconsciously the man shakes his head yes.

The Inquisitor stands and rears her head back, meeting the Commander’s eye. Out of breath, she cannot answer and curtly nods. The soldier salutes her with his sword to his forehead, casts a grateful glance in Cullen’s direction, and quickly makes his escape.

“My lady,” Blackwall comes up behind Cullen, “you have nothing to prove here.” Blackwall turns to Cullen, spittle escaping the Warden’s lips as he flings out his words in a hoarse whisper, “you cannot expect her to take you one on one.”

Cullen turns his back to the Inquisitor and faces Blackwall.

“I can, Ser Warden. As Battle Commander I will not send anyone into the field that is not ready, especially not her.” On the last, Cullen looks Blackwall in the eye, an accusation barely concealed. Blackwall has the shame to look uncertain.

Both men are distracted by the sound of The Iron Bull.

“Hey, Boss,” the Qunari calls to Dorothea who has been watching this exchange from afar, “heard you’re going to try to put down the Commander.” Bull leans into the ring, his whisper a barely concealed shout. “I’ve got good odds on you in the first ten.”

A crowd is beginning to gather and The Iron Bull steps back, gesturing for Blackwall to join him. Amazingly, the Warden does and Cullen focuses on the next task.

He sends a runner for his shield from his office, the normal tower shields used for training not his style. While they wait, the Inquisitor joins him at his side. As they have so many times, they mirror each other’s body posture. Their relaxed stance next to one another proclaims to all and sundry that they are the friendliest of comrades. They both smile and nod at various people who wave as they find places to stand on stairwells, sit on walls, and perch at windows.

“What are you hoping to achieve here, Commander?” she hisses, though the smile never leaves her lips.

“Inquisitor?”

“I hardly think it is necessary for the Commander of our armed forces to spar with me in the training ring. Surely we have enough for you to do without putting me through my paces.”

Cullen breathes deeply, nodding at one of his captains in the distance. “Inquisitor, I take a personal interest in all of our forces in the field.” He stiffens. “It is my duty.”

She makes a derisive noise in her throat: “To spar with me as entertainment for all?” She nods her head to encompass the quickly growing gathering of 100 plus souls that teems on the edges of the ring to watch this spectacle.

“No, my Lady Inquisitor, this is not sport. I will be training you because you are not battle ready.”

At that he walks away toward the center of the ring to meet the runner approaching with his shield. He doesn’t have to see the expression on the boy’s face to know that she stands behind him glaring daggers and seething. He knows he enraged her, hopes he unsettled her, needs for the eyes watching them to raise the stakes.

She approaches, striding confidently, but he can see the tension of her anger.

_Good. That will make the first lesson easy._

He raises his voice to be heard across the courtyard:  “We will be blade to blade, Inquisitor. I am allowed my shield and my sword—”

“But none of your Templar tricks,” she cuts in.

He inclines his head, “Yes. You will have your Barriers and Spirit Blade, but no other magic. We spar to a yield or a knockdown and then we reset.”

“I think, Commander,” a dangerous glint in her eye as she speaks, “that Varric will find it difficult to manage his book if we don’t make this into a friendly competition.”

Cullen scowls and the Inquisitor beams. She does not surprise him, but he wanted to avoid this.

“Hear, hear, your Inquisitorialness!” Varric calls from his perch on the Great Hall steps. “Three yields or one unconscious knockout declares the winner.” The dwarf’s ebullient manner adds an air of festival to the proceedings, so Cullen rejoins:

“Fair enough,” he again raises his voice for the courtyard to hear him:  “If the Inquisitor wins, the first round in the tavern is on me, Varric, for everyone in your book.”

The gathered crowd erupts into applause and cheering and people begin to swarm Varric with their markers.

“Varric, put ten gold on me, and Dorian,” the Inquisitor throws over her shoulder, “make sure Cabot saves some of the good Antivan Whiskey for us. I will enjoy drinking at the Commander’s expense.”

Cullen sighs inwardly and offers a silent prayer for intercession.

_Maker, don’t let me kill her._

“To work?” he asks, and they face off in the afternoon sun.


	4. Chapter 4

The Commander comes at her with firm, swift blows from his sword. She struggles to deflect them with her staff, the only use left to her with it since she can’t cast any offensive magic.

He is easily two and a half heads taller than her and a couple of hand spans broader. In melee, the advantages are all his.

But she is determined; scrappy her father always said. To be bested by this Templar in front of her people would be galling enough, but she has coin riding on this now.

Dorothea sees an opening and lunges with her Spirit Blade into the Commander. But before she knows what’s happened, his shield is around and he bashes her with it, a forceful blow knocking her arm up and away. She stumbles backward and barely manages to keep her feet, the crowd crowing.

Getting desperate for the upper hand, breathing hard, she throws another barrier on herself. She sees the Commander prepare and step to his right. Sensing an opportunity she begins to swerve in the opposite direction.

But it is a feint and she falls for it. He rushes her, knocking her to the ground with his shield. Despite her barrier, she knocks her head hard as she falls back to the ground and her vision purples briefly. When she regains her senses the Commander is above her, his shield angled to deflect anything she might throw at him from her repertoire. More pressing, though, is his sword which hovers just above her collarbone.

Dorothea grunts in a loud, wordless snarl.

“Do you yield, Inquisitor?” the Commander asks with infuriating control.

“Yes!” She shouts up at him with more force than is strictly required. His lips twitch a light smile in response; then it is gone.

He moves his sword into his shield hand, holding both awkwardly. He extends his empty hand down to her to bring her to her feet. “Take a minute, and we go again.”

They walk to the side of the ring. Solas doesn’t even give the Commander a second glance as she has not connected with anything but his shield. The mage closes a cut on Dorothea’s forearm.

The wound closes; her temper opens.

“This is ridiculous,” she says turning to confront the Commander. “I would never rush a shielded warrior unless I was in my death throes. I would stand back and throw lightning and weaken his guard!”

“Then why, Inquisitor, did you take the Knight-Enchanter focus?” Cullen asks with a penetrating stare.

“So I could manage rogues and mages, something other than a fully guarded and shielded Templar.” By this point she is shouting. But this exercise is so unlike what she sees in the field. She understands her limitations, remembers her demon lore, knows when to leave a warrior to go tete-a-tete with Blackwall or Cassandra.

“Ex-Templar.” As if the thought summoned her, the Seeker appears behind the Commander.

Cullen lifts a hand to quell further discussion. “No, Cassandra, she is right. I have special skills and guard training with a shield in deflecting magic that an average bandit or rogue would not have.” Dorothea nods firmly. “If, of course, we put aside the Red Templars who will have precisely the same training that I do, “ Dorothea blinks; she had not seen that trap coming.

They stand for a minute, none of them moving to the ring, the hubbub of the crowd dying down as they watch this spectacle.

“Fine,” the Commander says abruptly. He sets his shield to the ground by the wooden barriers surrounding the ring. “Swords, then, my blade to your blade. You may use your barriers so I don’t kill you, but nothing else; this is for technique.”

The Commander turns to the ring, not waiting for her to agree. Dorothea begins to splutter an objection, but Cassandra glares at her expectantly, crossing her arms across her chest. There is nothing for Dorothea to do but to join him.

She meets the Commander. He bows to her and takes a ready stance. She inclines her head to him and sets a barrier around herself. They stand for several beats, and then he advances, sword openly swinging into her torso area. She dodges, and it swipes into her barrier, making it stream blue for a moment as the magic absorbs the blade that should have laid open her ribs.

He dances past her and turns before she can steady herself on both of her feet. With her off balance, he brings his sword up as if to come into her gut. But she counters and raises her Spirit Blade, deflecting the blow by connecting to his elbow, the force of her motion swinging his blade arm away.

“Good,” he grunts, and dances away.

Emboldened, Dorothea tries to seek an advantage and summons her blade to go on the attack. He continues to parry and dance away from her, and she misses one swipe, then the next, and the next, each movement weakening the blade’s connection to the Fade.

She casts another barrier spell, refreshes her connection to the Fade to strengthen the blade again and this time manages to parry another of his blows headed for her shoulder.

He skims past her and while his back is still to her she lunges out on the attack, trying to connect into his lower back. With no obvious way of seeing her, he moves to intercept her blade. He pivots and crosses within her guard. He grabs her forearm with his free hand, forcing her blade arm down to the ground and in a fluid motion he brings his own sword arm around and lays the flat of his blade where her back meets her neck.

They stand there, both breathing heavily, his sword laid across her shoulders. His free hand still holds her arm even though she released her Spirit Blade. His face is inches away from her and she can feel his breath pooling between them, can smell the polish he uses for his armor.

There is stunned silence among their watchers. Few have had an opportunity to witness the Commander in open combat. The magnitude of his abilities is so openly on display here that a sense of pity for their Inquisitor begins to creep into the crowd.

From her vantage point, Dorothea can see Cassandra, smiling smugly. Dorothea says through gritted teeth, “I yield.”

He releases her and steps back. He looks her up and down and casually says, “You are ignoring your biggest advantage. What is it?”

Exasperated and exhausted, Dorothea blurts out, “I don’t know! If I knew, you’d already be buying me a drink. Instead I’m out here in the sun doing something I don’t know now to do!”

The Commander’s face does not waver. If he is disturbed by her scathing tone, he does not show it. Instead, he quietly asks so that only she can hear him, “Where is your scabbard?”

Dorothea looks at him with her mouth open in astonishment. She begins to wonder if the heat has begun to affect his senses or if he is finally Lyrium-addled.

“You know I don’t have one,” she is utterly enraged and annoyed. “It’s a _Spirit Blade_ ,” she bites out the last, her voice filled with scorn.

The Commander nods and walks toward her slowly, his sword held at his side. As he nears her, he says distinctly, “Then why do you draw it?”

He waits just beyond arm’s reach, looking at her expectantly.

She rewards his patience with the widening of her eyes as his words find purchase.

She wastes precious moments in swinging out and up with her blade and precious energy from the Fade. The blade she wields is one of spirit and is weightless. It doesn’t need the force of a blow behind it to cause more damage. All she has to do is extend her hand and it will be there, as keen and deadly as if she had heaved it from her side.

The Commander barely allows a moment for her realization to close around her and he swings his sword in an overhand attack, aiming for her head. Without thought, her blade is where her hand would be to stay his. She counters his motion, arresting and deflecting it.

For a breath, all is still. His eyes lock with hers and he smiles. Wordlessly, the Commander continues to advance, on the attack.

She blocks each attack, deflecting with the blade and skirting his blows with her barrier as she retreats and dances away.

Her heart sings as she feels the certainty of using the blade as an extension of herself. _She_ is the weapon, as she always has been with her magic. By allowing herself to believe the Spirit Blade was like any sword, something to be wielded, she misunderstood its entire purpose. She had forgotten the blade wasn’t the weapon.

_I am the weapon. The blade is an extension of my danger._

As if he can discern her internal revelations, the Commander calls: “Good. Now come at me.”

She does, lunging into the dance with him, meeting him in the steps. But she cannot find purchase. She understands what to do. But still she finds it difficult to close with him to use the blade as an extension of her self. She continues to deflect his thrusts, more elegantly now and with no need to refresh her barrier as regularly, but she gains no ground of her own.

“Commander,” Cassandra’s voice calls out, and the Seeker throws the Commander his shield. He manages to catch it and faces Dorothea, at the ready.

He meets her eye and invites her: “Now, everything you have.”

Dorothea realizes with clarity this is what she missed: all of her magic that makes her the weapon, that makes her the dangerous one.

Advancing, she throws electricity at the Commander which he deflects up and away with his shield. In the back of her awareness she can feel Solas and Dorian create a dampening field around the sparring ring to absorb any stray bolts.

He is still recovering from throwing her lightning bolt, his shield akimbo. Covering herself in a barrier, she pushes beyond his guard, knocking aside his sword with her staff and swipes at his legs with her spirit blade as she passes. As she pivots to recover she releases a blast of magic from her staff to ignite fire at his heels.

Distracted and harried by the blows, she uses his distraction to throw down a lightening glyph into his path. The Commander does not see it, and his body goes rigid for a moment as the glyph releases its Fade energy into him.

She dances into the reach of his sword, swiping again in a flurry of attacks from her staff. Recognizing her rhythm, the Commander begins to effortlessly parry them and then suddenly assumes the attack.

She struggles with his assault. She throws up another barrier at the last, barely continuing to deflect the deadly slice of his blade.

Needing a moment to gather herself, she dredges up enough mana to throw up a lightning cage, and the Commander is grabbed into its area of effect. She dances around the perimeter, taunting him, waiting for her moment while her mana rebuilds and her breath calms.

The cage spins out and she sees him ready his shield into a wall so he can assess her next stance. His breathing looks labored but she sees that he will counter another lightning strike effortlessly.

She makes a decision, moves to close with him, and readies her staff.

At the sight of fire coming down over his head from her staff, he lifts his shield to deflect the flame. She brings around her free hand, under handed, gesturing under the lower edge of his shield, and attacks with the spirit blade, driving it into his gut.

Her momentum from her battle lust carries her past him. As she slows to turn, she feels a disruption of her mana and focuses enough to the see the Seeker in her line of sight. The pain is wholly unpleasant, but the low state of her mana pool means that when the Seeker sets fire to the Lyrium in her blood it is not crippling. The ache brings Dorothea back to the here and now, and she nods at the Seeker to demonstrate that she has her wits about her.

Breathing heavily she turns to face the Commander and she sees him laid out flat on the ground, not moving. Solas leans over him along with two other mages. She recognizes the healing energies from the Fade in desperation. She understands she has gone too far.

Throwing down her staff, struggling free of Cassandra’s grip which appeared on her arm, she moves to where he is down. She kneels next to him.

Drained of her mana she is useless to help. She watches the other mages work, willing them to be fast enough. Cassandra joins her and they wait for moments, stretching into an eternity.

Suddenly, the Commander gulps in air and his eyes fly open as the worst of his internal injuries are stitched together with the thread of the Fade. Overcome by the stress of almost killing the Commander of her armed forces, Dorothea’s eyes fill with tears.

But Cullen simply smiles and weakly says, “Drinks are on me.”

Then he lifts his head and Cassandra helps him to his feet. The gathered crowd cheers and Varric closes out his book.


	5. Chapter 5

The Iron Bull sits at the table, his back to the wall, watching the revelry around him. He absently shuffles the deck in his hands. The Commander’s semi-open bar tab downstairs left The Iron Bull’s usual spot immersed in a throng of people. It had taken Varric little time to convince him to head upstairs to try to get together a card game or two. Cabot was too busy and the ground floor too loud for the bar master to notice the creak in the stairs as the Qunari ascended them.

The Iron Bull continues to shuffle the cards, waiting for some of his compatriots to join him so he can teach them the rules for a Qunari card game. He successfully taught the Chargers with one of these Southern decks. The cards’ faces aren’t right and the aesthetics are off. But even if they were correct, it wouldn’t mean anything to one not of the Qun, so it matters little.

Stitches sits next to him, smoke trailing up out of his pipe. The Iron Bull has finally gotten used to the Southern use of tobacco. At first he found the casual display of it in open society jarring. Now after so many years with the Chargers he barely notices anymore when Stitches looks like a small, smoldering fire. Besides, the field surgeon favors some sort of blend soaked in Ferelden Whiskey—easy to find now that they are in Skyhold and at the fucking center of the world—and the sweet, spicy smell makes Bull think of home. So he doesn’t mind the other man’s pipe.

He can hear Maryden singing down below. It’s one of her songs he favors most. Bull hums to himself— _we held together the fragile sky to keep our way of life_ —and allows himself the small luxury of thinking of home for a brief dip of his eyelids.

When he opens them he re-centers himself in being The Iron Bull. He looks over to see the Tevinter mage come up the steps bearing a sealed bottle of Antivan Whiskey and two empty glasses. Dorian stops next to Varric. The dwarf begins to hand him a purse, but Dorian shakes his head and whispers something to the dwarf. Varric chuckles, waves over the boy who runs errands for him, gives him an instruction, hands him the bag, and—with another glance at Dorian—waves the boy off. Dorian and Varric shake hands and Dorian weaves his way to the tables where The Iron Bull sits with Stitches.

The Iron Bull watches the boy fly down the stairs with the large coin purse. He winds his way through the crowd below, approaches the bar, and ducks underneath the counter where he grabs Cabot forcefully by the elbow and then whispers in his ear.

Dorian sets his burden on the table and drops into a chair with a sigh and an elegant flourish. Bull is surprised when the mage does not immediately open the whiskey and he wonders to whom the second glass belongs.

Instead, The Iron Bull asks:  “That is a mighty big purse to turn aside and send to the barkeep. How many bottles of that whiskey you had already?”

“Not a drop, sadly,” Dorian hitches his arm across the back of his chair and reclines slightly with a smile which tugs at his mustache.

Dorian holds the silence, his smile, and the Qunari’s gaze just longer than is comfortable. Unperturbed, The Iron Bull returns his look with a bemused twitch of his lips.

Dorian’s smile deepens and broadens, his eyes twinkling. “Oh,” the mage drawls, “I believe you wanted to know about the purse, too?”

“Did I, _Qalaba_?” asks The Iron Bull and takes a long pull on his tankard.

“It is Dorothea’s, her wager winnings. She does always seem to pick a winning horse.”

“Even if it’s a Dark Horse,” Bull states somewhat suggestively and gets his reward in Dorian’s laugh. This is followed quickly by a soft curse.

“ _Kaffas_ , I need to get myself a drink.” The Qunari gives Dorian a questioning glance and gestures at the whiskey and tumblers. “Ah. That is also Dorothea’s and not worth my pretty face to open it without her.”

The mage starts away and then stops to throw a glance over his shoulder.

“Hold my spot,” and with a smile he is away down the stairs.

From next to him The Iron Bull hears a snort and he looks over as Stitches reclines in his chair, dips his hat over his eyes, and settles back to close his eyes. The old surgeon is able to sleep on a moment’s notice and ready to operate again twice as fast. The Iron Bull chuckles to himself as the other man’s breathing rumbles into a soft snore.

The press around Varric is lessening by the time Dorian returns and The Iron Bull can see Blackwall in a far corner, sitting with some farmers who came in from Eastern Orlais the day before. From here the large Qunari can just see over the heads of others and discern the words on the man’s lips. At first he wonders if his lip reading skills have deserted him in these barbarian lands, and then it occurs to The Iron Bull that the man’s speech is Orlesian. A surprise; he is not a fan of surprises in which he can’t stick an axe.

Dorian sits again with his flourishing grace and says, “Where were we? Oh, yes, toasting me: to the Inquisitor’s Dark Horse,” and then he salutes The Iron Bull with his wine mug and drinks.

“So why did you send the Boss’s winning purse to Cabot?” The Iron Bull asks while Dorian drinks.

“Inquisitor’s request,” Dorian assures him and waggles his mug at Bull. “I say drinks are on the _Boss_ tonight.”

The Iron Bull laughs and Dorian joins him.

“So what tales come out of Par Vollen and the land of the Qun lately? Have you subjugated any new, inferior races or too busy making _saarebas_?” Dorian baits, a sparkle in his voice.

“Ah, well, no more busy than Tevinter enslaving elves and spawning twisted magisters who want to take over the world to become gods,” the Qunari counters and sips from his ale, eyeing Dorian over the top.

Dorian sighs and relaxes. “Oh, good, it is refreshing to have that tired, expected banter out of the way. Now we can talk about something more civilized.” Dorian pauses and sips his wine, waiting to see if The Iron Bull will begin. The Qunari remains quiet, watching the mage, and Dorian fills the amicable silence, “How does one become a Reaver? Is it a secret ceremony? Are there costumes and dancing? Your skills, as I understand it, look oddly similar to a mage specialty I considered for myself…”

Dorian begins to prattle, describing the arcane specialists that journeyed to Skyhold to present their magics for the Inquisitor’s consideration. Knight Enchanter Hellaine ultimately won Dorothea’s interest and the other mages were left with time on their hands until arrangements could be made for their departures.

 _Mortalitasi_. The _Ben-Hassrath_ knew of these mages, Nevarran _saarebas,_ encountering them in travels through Nevarra. The Qun’s own _arvaared_ were reluctant to even take on _Mortalitasi_ , preferring to behead the Nevarran mages instead of taking them into the Qun. Apparently the beheading was important, even if the damn corpse was bleeding six ways to Tuesday: it despoiled the body for the rites of the sect.

Abruptly he realizes that Dorian stopped talking. The Iron Bull’s attention snaps back to the mage quickly. It is unusual for him to forget himself and wander when he is with others. Looking over, he sees Dorian is smiling softly at him and sipping from his mug.

Bull starts to speak and then stops. His mouth slightly agape, he feels overcome by the idea that Dorian sees him. In this foreign land, filled with so many strange things, this strange _mage_ sees him.

“She’ll be going to the Approach soon,” Dorian says.

“I know,” Bull replies. “I’m to go with her. There’s a dragon we’ll look in on and some Venatori after she does some sort of crystal shit in the middle of the desert.”

“Yes, I know, she’s promised me I’ll get to go to the Oasis before Vivenne,” Dorian boasts. “I asked her to.” And nebulously, Dorian sips and says nothing more.

“To … ?” Bull prompts.

“To take you.”

Bull had not expected that.

Down below the tavern throws up a cheer. The Inquisitor has come in and, from the sounds emanating through the floor, every person inside Skyhold wants to shake her hand. Sensing his cue, Varric rises in the distance and prepares to go downstairs to greet the hero and to toast her win.

Bull nods to the balustrade and asks, “Shall we go watch, _Saarimekari_?”

Dorian responds, “I can’t say the view is better, but I suppose we must.”

Bull nods his head in acknowledgement and they make their way to the railing just as Varric is clearing his throat to gather all eyes to him.


	6. Chapter 6

Cassandra stands on the third level of the tavern looking down to the activities below, keeping her face in the shadows. She knows Varric sits directly under her, settling bets from the afternoon, and she hopes to stay out of sight of the dwarf. She knew he was fond of running books on the Inquisitor’s missions, and diligently ignored it. But today was the final straw, doing it so openly over a sparring session and one with the Commander, nonetheless. It was too much to ignore.

Once it was widely known that Dorothea was looking to scout a High Dragon—the cover story for her journey to the Oasis for those unsettling tranquil shards—Cassandra knows there will be no containing Varric or his book. She cannot blithely stand by and allow it to continue, but if she can manage to not _see_ the dwarf … well, it is a big fortress, after all. Certainly she can find something to do for the next six weeks or so. The Exalted Plains needs a preliminary expedition to discover how volatile the Dales still are. Perhaps it is time to take up her shield again and head to the field, she could request Cullen send her there.

She hears the door from the ramparts open, the same door she came in earlier. Expecting Cole who is vacant from his normal corner on the fringe of the light, she is surprised when she hears the thunk of boots.

It is Cullen. He has left off his armor since he is supposed to be in a healer’s bed. It is a minor concession since he shouldn’t be up at all. But she swallows shooing him back. Cassandra knows that Solas and the other mages poured enough magic into him to cure even his gray hairs.

“Cassandra,” he greets her as he comes to stand next to her, hands clasped behind his back, his shoulders straight.

Looking at him and sighing, she pulls two heavy crates to the railing and gestures for him to sit as she does the same. Cullen regards the roaring crowd below, rambunctious with the day’s exhibition and much subsequent drinking. “I can throw quite the party,” he says blithely, gesturing below them.

Cassandra grunts, a slightly disgusted sound. She will not be diverted. “You are too pale,” she bites at him in her unique version of concern.

Cullen sighs. He sits with his fingers laced, forearms on his knees and rests his forehead on the railing, his eyelids closed. She has been waiting to speak of this since he stepped out of the sparring ring. She needs to say this to him and Maker knows he needs to hear it.

“Cassandra, I am fine.”

“Cullen, you are an addict. What you did today was irresponsible.” She pauses. “Brilliant, tactical, and needed, but irresponsible; you risked too much.”

He lifts one of his eyelids and peeks at her out of the corner of his eye, tilting his head to catch her glance. She gives him a slight smile and a _hrumph_ in return.

“It came out all right in the end. I – I didn’t pull at them. To be honest, it’s been so long since I took Lyrium, I don’t think I could even manage a mana purge if I tried.” He attempts to smile at her, falters at her stony expression.

“And what comes now?”

“Now?” he asks. His tone is light; too light. He wants to divert her.

“Maker take you, you know damn well what now. It goes beyond what you would do to your recovery if you tried to pull at the last traces of Lyrium in your body. You put yourself in mortal combat fighting a mage when you should know to be more cautious,” she growls at him.

His body stiffens.

“It’s why I’m here,” he whispers. Cassandra almost misses it, all but has to read his lips to catch it. “I couldn’t stay in bed any longer, on my own, with the song. Normally, I would go and run a practice drill, but,” he pats his side, “that doesn’t seem wise.”

With his admission a thread of tension in Cassandra unravels.

“I assumed as much,” she responds. “Tell me about the last time you fought a mage.”

Cullen sits up sharply, on guard.

“Cassandra, I hardly think it is neces—“

“Was it Kirkwall?” she cuts in.

Silence—then slowly—he nods once.

“During or after the madness?”

“During,” he whispers, staring straight ahead, not seeing the tavern below him. “He wasn’t an abomination, not a demon, not a Maleficar. He was just on the other side. He wanted to be free, from the terror, from the fear, from the Circle. But not the freedom I gave him.”

“Do you remember how it happened?”

Cullen nods at her, not meeting her eye. “It was when everything changed. I changed. Hawke … it was all over soon after.”

“Do you miss it?” Cassandra asks quietly, looking at this profile.

“The Lyrium?”

“No. Being a Templar. Meeting in battle with the full force of what you can be, who you have trained to be, filled with the purpose that the Maker made for you?”

Cullen meets her gaze. In that look, neither of them is sure who is lost and who is helping any longer.

“Yes,” he says simply.

“Me, too,” the sound strangles out of her. He reaches for her hand and holds it.

Cassandra barely registers the companionship. Justinia started her on this path. At the time, Cassandra had not known she could fail, had not fathomed how much she could lose. She knows differently now and this life of sorrow looms over her even now.

Cullen looks forward again, staring into the void that opens to the tavern below.  “Cassandra,” Cullen speaks into the air, “what if I got this wrong? I stopped taking the Lyrium to save my self, my memories. What if I’ve done all of this, fought all of this, to lose something else that is me? What if being a Templar is all I am, and now I do not have even that? It has started to get bad again,” his hand tremors in hers and he releases it, grips his hands together in a large fist.

Cassandra regards him. “You are a good man,” she says into the quiet. “You are a good leader and a good soldier. Today you showed you are a remarkable warrior. You created your place here. There is no one watching today who could be in doubt.

“You are not simply a former Templar. You are more than the Lyrium, Cullen. You always have been.” She clasps his shoulder, squeezes. “It is what the Most Holy saw in you.” She rises to go.

“You won’t join them?” he asks as she retreats toward the door to the battlements.

Cassandra turns and regards the hubbub below. The Inquisitor has come in and Cassandra sees Varric descending the stairs.

“No doubt he will make some damned speech,” Cassandra gestures in the direction of the dwarf, “and everyone will love and cheer him. Ugh. I have had my fill of Varric Tethras this day.”

“Someone would think you lost money today, Cassandra.” Cullen smiles wanly.

Cassandra snorts in the back of her throat and smirks at him. Before she turns to walk up the stairs to find her bed she turns to ask, “Commander, I would like to visit the Exalted Plains as a forward party. It may prove a tactical obstacle in Orlais. It will require some attention.” She leaves the request and the question to him open in the air.

Cullen catches it, “Agreed. Perhaps I should accompany your party; it may need watching.”

She nods her head, “I will begin to arrange our absence, and notify the forward scouts we travel to them. We will leave on the second dawn after the Inquisitor departs; I think we both need to return to the field. It will be good to travel with you, Cullen.”

He inclines his head, “Thank you, Cassandra,” and she opens the door and steps into the crisp, night air.


	7. Chapter 7

It was turning out to be quite the party. After Varric’s rather bombastic speech extolling the virtues of the Inquisitor—during which there had been much drinking and toasting to the demise of the dragon on the expedition coming up—the crowd simply got louder and more numerous. Cullen sits with an odd sense of peace, listening to half of the tavern drink on his tab.

_Maker, this is going to be expensive_.

“But worth it, blade streaming blue, to remind her of the danger that lies within, that she is the dangerous one.”

Cullen does not start at the sound even though he did not hear anyone approach. After all, he sits in Cole’s domain so it was only a matter of time until the strange boy turned up. Cullen shifts his head, sees Cole out of the corner of his eye and nods his acceptance of what Cole plucked out of his head.

Cullen stands and gestures to the railing next to him so both of them can observe the festivities below. The light coming from the lower levels illuminates the boy’s face and his large eyes are prominent. Cullen watches as the boy’s pupils’ dilate in the light and his attention darts from tableau to tableau.

“Does he want to? At home they would kill him or enslave him. If I was at home, would I be different? Am I different here?”

Cullen looks to see what Cole focuses on and sees Dorian sitting with The Iron Bull, Stitches, and one of the other Chargers. The Iron Bull explains a card game, laying out face cards and showing different combinations.

“He hides.” Cullen looks up as Cole’s voice becomes more focused. The boy stares at him. “Home is different than here. Here there is a new family, but home … home is still important. This is harder than he thought it would be.”

“Cole,” Cullen asks. “Is someone not happy, wants not to stay? Is it Dorian?”

“Dorian?” Cole echoes and his eyes slip out of focus softly. “Comfortable in my own skin, but he makes him wonder if it might be the wrong skin. Wants to find out; scared to start. Teases, smiles, and then waits.”

Cullen sighs. When he realized what Cole could do he’d sat with the boy for a long while, curious if he could discover vulnerabilities. But Cole’s prattling was often incomprehensible to Cullen, even when it came from Cullen’s own head.

He watches the Inquisitor climb the stairs from the ground floor, calling back over her shoulder to Krem, accepting his hail. She holds two tumblers of amber liquid in her hands and looks around when she gets to the top of the stairs. She smiles and moves to where he can’t see her, speaking to someone below him.

Varric moves next to Dorian and sits down for the card game The Iron Bull is starting. Varric motions to be dealt in. Dorian calls to someone across the room, points to a bottle of whiskey next to him.

“He should be here. It’s his victory, too. Steady, sure, guiding us out of Haven, making sure we’re safe. I’m safe.” Cole stops and blinks, he looks at Cullen. “She’s not sure why she thinks that.”

Cullen looks at the boy and opens his mouth to ask –

“Cullen?”

His gaze snaps around to the staircase and Dorothea stands there, carrying the two tumblers still, coming around the balustrade.

“Inquisitor.” His voice registers his surprise at seeing her up here. He wants to ask why she has ventured up this far, but leaves off the question, knows it is in his eyes.

“Commander.” She blushes slightly. He realizes, dimly, she used his name before, but now uses his title; he isn’t sure why it should matter. “Are you up here alone?” she asks and gestures to the open space.

His gaze sweeps around to find Cole, but as he turns he sees the boy is gone. Cullen can’t think how to explain, so he doesn’t, settles instead for: “Yes, Cassandra was with me earlier, but she has retired.”

“Ah,” Dorothea smiles. “I saw the book seller replenished one of the merchants in the courtyard.”

“Yes, I found a particularly fine copy on Tevinter and the Imperial Chantry. I thought to read it—um—a bit.” He halts, rubs his neck.

Dorothea walks toward him and motions to the crates behind him, “May I join you?”

“By all means,” and Cullen steps back to allow her to sit and then he sits next to her. She takes in the view: Bull, Dorian, Varric, Stitches, and a couple of other Chargers playing cards. Bull chastises various players as they make strategic errors.

She laughs, jolts as if remembering something, and hands a tumbler to him.

“I thought perhaps you would drink with me, to toast your success.”

He hesitates, his gaze stuck on the glass she extends to him.

“It’s Ferelden,” she says, “from South Reach, I think.”

He accepts it and inhales, smells the warm sugar spiciness of it. Remembers his father sitting with his grandfather after Branson was born: the pride of a spare son. Remembers being allowed to sit by his father’s knee, the man’s hand on his hair ruffling the curls, the lull of the drone of their talk, words that are unimportant but mean everything, all he will hold dear and protect in the world.

“Yes. It has been some time since I’ve had it. Thank you.” He clears his throat and wipes the shimmer of the memory from his thoughts. “But I think you mean your success; you bested me, after all.” He pauses and looks her full in the face to pay her the compliment: “It was well done.”

The color rises in her cheeks and she smiles reflexively. “But the victory is yours, still,” her voice is gentle, but her tone is insistent and firm. He listens. “I did not know what I was doing out there and I know it. It was painfully embarrassing,” she chuckles dryly.

She continues: “I wanted to kill you when you came out. I know you aren’t happy with my decision in Crestwood, to leave them to flounder on their own—“ he begins to interrupt, but she forestalls him with a hand on his arm “—to deal with the dead and the rift under the water. I thought you were acting on a grudge. I thought you wanted to make me look foolish.”

“I wouldn’t seek to make you look foolish, Inquisitor,” he says formally.

“I know that.” She smiles weakly. “Now.” She moves her hand off his arm, wraps her fingers around her glass, and stares into the amber depths.

“You didn’t just challenge me out there, you taught me. You reminded me who to be. Me. A Mage.” She looks at him and smiles warmly. “You. A Templar.”

“It could almost be one of Varric’s stories,” he says awkwardly, then wishes he hadn’t said it. But she is laughing and then he doesn’t feel the need to take it back anymore so he smiles with her.

“So,” she lifts her glass and sucks in a breath, “to the Commander of the Inquisition, Cullen Rutherford: firm in his purpose, gentle in his guidance, strong in his loyalty. To the Commander.” She tips her tumbler to his and the glasses clink, hard and tinny.

Cullen is quiet.

He nods his head in acknowledgement of the accolade and sips as she does.

They sit together above the filtered din, drinking their whiskey in companionable silence and watching the game play below.

Eventually, Blackwall joins the table and Cullen see Templar Lysette walk over also. Next to him Dorothea sighs. He follows her eye and sees that Dorian has seen her up here and points to the full bottle of whiskey next to him, still unopened. She nods to him and begins to rise, placing her empty glass on the floor. Cullen rises with her.

“I will follow you down and see Cabot. I still have my bill to settle with him.” He smiles at her. “Thank you, Lady Trevelyan. Your notice is a pleasure to be earned,” and he salutes her, his fist to his heart. She acknowledges him and turns to make her way down.

“You won’t need to settle with Cabot,” she says over her shoulder. “My winnings already did that.”

“Inq—Doro—Lady” Cullen is caught off guard and his speech splutters to a stop. She pauses at the top of the stair and turns to face him.

“It was my debt to pay and so I did with my winnings from Varric. It seems despite his _obvious_ confidence in me the odds had been _slightly_ in your favor at the outset so it was quite a tidy sum.” She smiles. “Maker knows he, Bull, and Dorian have already drunk half of it.”

At his look of rallying a protest, she stops him was an arched eyebrow. “Do you really think I won’t get my way on this, Commander?” she teases him, a sparkle in her eye. “Besides,” she moves a step back, “everyone still thinks it’s your coin. It makes for a better story.

“If you must insist on paying me back, though, come join us at this Qunari game Bull makes us play. I keep losing a fortune. I can’t figure out the strategy of it. If you can explain it to me, we’ll be more than square.”

She sticks out her hand and Cullen clasps it and they shake. Then both of them descend the stairs to join the others.


	8. Chapter 8

Cole stands at the railing, rolling the empty tumbler between his hands.

“Amber spirit, eyes like a pool of it.”

Cole looks down to where the Inquisitor sits with her companions.

“A better man; maybe he is, want that for myself. An old name burns inside armor that shouldn’t fit.”

Cole sees Blackwall rub his chin and lay a bet against the Commander.

“Alone. How far will I run to still be me and what will I find when I get there. Can’t hate you for hiding if you burn so brilliantly.”

Cole sees Dorian close out his hand, loudly exclaiming his fold.

“Missing what I’ve never had, to share this, to be the one she shows up for, a quiet place where stone shape shakes the ground.”

Cole sees Varric chivvy The Iron Bull, calling the hand.

“Mastery of the self; Loss of the self is the source of suffering; Guilt.”

Cole sees Bull laugh as he lays down his hand, seeing Varric’s bluff.

“He sounds new, echoes of laughter on an empty riverbed.”

Cole sees Cullen triumphantly lay down his hand, the shocked look on the Qunari’s face at his loss, the Inquisitor’s whoop of laughter as she returns the Commander’s glance with a smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Create Order #9  
> For more on this story's creation, checkout [Appendix, Chapter 6](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6612037/chapters/18520750)


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